I'll Follow You
by LaurenIsCool
Summary: World War II - Era AU Enjolras gets drafted; naturally, Grantaire enlists as soon as he hears the news.


The Amis sat dumbfounded, staring at their leader. He was sitting slouched in a chair, head in his right hand, and draft papers in the left. All of his friends were silent, until Combeferre stood.

"I'm coming with you." He said boldly. His voice didn't waver.

"Me, too." Feuilly added, standing up.

"And me." Declared Bossuet.

One by one, each of the Amis pledged their allegiance to the defeated man in red. Only when they were all standing did he straighten up and begin to speak: "I forbid it." He stated with such force that his friends slowly sat down. "I have the chance to serve my country, and I will do so, as there is much injustice in the world to be fought. But the rest of you need to stay behind and help further the dream of the domestic revolution, for without you, I fear the dream would die. It is up to you, my Amis, to complete what we have started, even after I'm gone. I know you can. I have prepared you well."

Combeferre nodded. "We will do our best, Enjolras. But please, don't speak of your fate as if it is sealed. Your revolution will welcome you with open arms when you return." He voiced.

The leader's face showed bravery, but his eyes depicted uncertainty. "In the event that I don't, I want you all to continue fighting."

"Always." Courfeyrac promised.

Enjolras smiled. "I'm lucky to have such loyal friends." And so it was that the evening was spent not in preparation for war, but in revelry and merriment as the last day of Enjolras's freedom. Everyone had at least the decency to pretend they were having a good time through all the fear they were experiencing – everyone except Grantaire. He had left immediately after receiving the news and gone straight to the recruitment office.

"I am enlisting." Grantaire demanded.

Grantaire showed up mostly sober at Enjolras's tiny house later that night. Enjolras sighed upon seeing him. "What do you want, you useless drunk?"

"I've enlisted." He awkwardly replied, "I thought you might like to know."

Enjolras slumped his shoulders. "You can come in, I suppose." Grantaire walked into the kitchen and sat down at the table, followed by Enjolras.

There is a half-empty bottle of wine sitting on the table. "You don't usually drink." Grantaire noted.

"It isn't a usual circumstance for me that I am forced away from everything I love." Remarked Enjolras flatly.

"Your country?" Prompted Grantaire. He took the wine from the table and knocked back half of the remainder.

Enjolras sighed heavily before responding. "I guess. Although I'd be lying if I said that this is how I had imagined I would go – not by my own choosing, that is."

"You speak as if your death is set in stone."

"Dare I ask why you've decided to do this?" Enjolras questioned, eager to change the subject.

Grantaire took that as an invitation. "I've got nothing." He admitted, "Nothing at all. I haven't any purpose, money, or family. I don't believe in your revolution, Enjolras, you know this already. So what have I got when you're gone? I've got my spirits, but even the finest wine is seawater when I'm forced apart from you. Don't you get it, Enjolras? You're my purpose. The only reason I'm functioning. Without you I'm reduced to absolute nothingness. So what's the point? I could toil away and ultimately hinder a revolution I don't have any confidence in, or I could follow the light of my life off to war. What would you have me do, Apollo?"

"I would have you not disgrace the name of the revolution and the name of this country any more than you already have." Enjolras said, his face stoic.

The words cut Grantaire like a knife, but he had been expecting that. "I will not bring you any shame, Enjolras. Mark my words."

He ran a hand through his blond curls, deep in thought. "I should hope not" was the only conclusion he could draw; but this was good enough for Grantaire.

The ensuing silence was not uncomfortable. Both men were left to their own thoughts, both going in entirely different directions, until Enjolras thought out loud: "I am the light of your life?"

"The only light I've ever seen." Grantaire confirmed, reaching across the table to take his friend's hands in his own.

"Your purpose?"

"The sole reason for my existence is to see your spirit fly."

"Your existence is pitiful."

"And yet now I am in the same position as you, off to die in a brutal war." Grantaire held Enjolras's icy blue gaze with a surprising certainty. It was the latter who broke it first, looking down at their hands.

"This whole time…" Enjolras muttered, trying to piece together the past, "it's been because of me?"

"Every second of it."

"And here I thought you lived only to make a mockery of my Amis and me." He shook his head.

Grantaire smiled. "That was only a side goal. No, my Apollo, your passion flying so close to the sun was what brought me to your ridiculous meetings day after day. Because of the look on your face when it is alight with passion, the fire in your eyes when you're in your element, I was damned to worship the ground you walk upon from the second you caught my attention."

"Alight with passion…" Enjolras echoed in a whisper.

"I'm afraid, though, Enjolras." Grantaire said quietly, "I fear I'll never have purpose again. Not only because you are going away –I am going with you, after all – but because you will never be as passionate as you once were. Should you live with the burden of survival when so many of your brothers have fallen, I fear the soul will have drained from your eyes. Without your light, I can provide none of my own. I will be nothing."

"Stop it!" Enjolras cried, ripping his hands from Grantaire's grip, "Just stop it!" He lunged up, sending the chair skidding backwards, and stormed across the room. Leaning against the counter, he took in deep, agonizing breaths. "Just… just stop."

Grantaire shook his head and slowly approached the seething man. "To further understate my feelings would make me a liar."

"You _idiot_." Enjolras cursed through clenched teeth, "You sheer, utter idiot, Grantaire. _Fool!_ You should have held your tongue!"

Grantaire just stared. When Enjolras turned back around, all the energy had drained from his face, and he was shaking ever so slightly. "This whole time?" He asked. His voice was pitiful in comparison to his usual fervent cadence.

"Yes."

And that was all it took to reignite the intensity in Enjolras's eyes. He surged upon Grantaire like a tidal wave, his lips crashing onto the taller man's and his arms swiftly enveloping him. The emotion behind it gave Grantaire a sudden and distinct drowning sensation as he took a shocked breath in through his nose. The rhythmless waves of kisses with which Enjolras accosted his friend were each hungrier, more desperate than the last. The force behind each one was matched by his partner, voraciously seeking more contact as his hands snaked up the revolutionary's back, behind his neck, through his hair.

With desperateness deep-rooted in long-suffering desire, Grantaire surged forward, pushing the frantic man up against the wall. Enjolras in return gripped him even tighter, burying one hand in his brown curls and pulling his face closer so that the kisses became sloppier, more forceful. It was all tongues, teeth, lips, and fire; nothing sweet about it. So it was relatively unsurprising when Grantaire moved his lip's attention to the blond's rough jaw, his neck, his collarbone. He took the skin between his teeth before roughly trying to bruise him as much as possible. His hands traveled down to his hipbones, pressing up against them. The moan that escaped Enjolras's lips sealed his fate.


End file.
